


everybody make a scene

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Rival Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mourinho shows up at Kloppo's hotel room on Halloween night after Liverpool 3-1 Chelsea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody make a scene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jjjat3am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



"The normal one," José says, as soon as Jürgen opens the door. His lips are pursed, just slightly, caught on the sour side of neutral, not quite a frown.

"Oh, yes, quite normal," Jürgen says. It might not be exactly politic to smile, but he does it anyway, stepping aside and letting him into the room - the same people who wouldn't smile would tut at that, too, no doubt. He closes the door on all of that, leaving the two of them alone inside.

José has made himself at home by the time the latch clicks shut, in a strange, almost undefinable way: standing near the edge of the room between window and bed, somehow looking as if he belongs there, as if Jürgen were visiting _him_ unlooked and unasked for. With the extra distance he looks taller; not a retreat, but an attack. All very purposeful. He must have planned this out, Jürgen thinks, leaning against the door to watch, so as not to spoil the effect. He can appreciate an off-pitch performance as much as anyone else.

"Then it must be a new feeling for you," José says. "You seem used to - something else."

"So you do have something to say."

José's lip curls up at the corner. It's impossible to tell whether it's a sneer or a smirk or something in between. "Have you turned reporter?" he asks. "Changed jobs again already?"

"No, I thought I'd stay for a while." Jürgen raises an eyebrow, spreading his empty hands. This - his own - hotel room, London, the Premier League - let José interpret it how he wants. He doubts the details of this meeting, no matter how uncharitably interpreted, will make their way to the back pages any time soon. Neither of them, after all, _are_ reporters.

José snorts dismissively, crossing his arms and leaning back against his own wall, giving Jürgen an insultingly long, slow look-over. They're far enough apart that he doesn't have to look up much to make his point, a deliberate calculation that makes Jürgen wonder how many times he’s done this, at what point the math of height and distance multiplied by low hotel-room ceilings and the clutter of bed and desk became so instantaneous it looks natural. "Starting a new family in a new country with a more desperate little woman," he says, when he’s done looking.

“You’ve come to give me advice on that?” Jürgen asks mildly. It does sting; he suspects it will for years to come, but he’d been prepared for some sort of retaliation for his teasing in the press -- even if he hadn’t precisely expected a personal visit -- and Dortmund is a soft, easy target painted on his back, the sort he knows José can’t resist, though he’s never turned the edge of his tongue on _him_ like this before. The flash of frustrated irritation in José’s eyes at his non-reaction is enough to salve the hurt, though; he smiles again, only half for José’s benefit.

“You don’t win the Champions League with a family.” José’s face has gone neutral again, almost pleased, but the acid is bleeding through into his voice, now, a bitter slick on the taunt. “You don’t keep good players, top players, by coddling them and hugging them. And you’ll never win this league by showing great character.”

“You don’t stay at a club long enough to build any character to show by turning them all against each other,” Jürgen says. “Though you did go back -- that’s something. A second chance.”

“Ha.” It’s a scoff not even pretending to be a laugh; he thinks José probably means it to be an insult, a sneer showing what he thinks of second chances or character or Jürgen in particular, but it’s a crack in the armor, a tiny flaw in the eye-rolling dismissal that shows only if you know it’s already there. 

Of course, the chance isn’t going so well for him as it had the year before. He knows what that feels like, and José knows he knows, and so on until it’s the kind of twisted up mess that you could trip over, cutting you down. He thinks things are probably worse than they look at Chelsea, for José to make a trap out of his own losses -- and he refuses to look further down the rabbithole of whether José would have anticipated him having guessed that. “So if not to give me advice, why do I have the pleasure tonight?” he asks, shifting forward a half step: casual, but just enough to infringe on José’s deliberate spacing, wanting to see whether he’ll stay or retreat. “I don’t think you’ve come just to tell me I’m normal -- or not normal.”

“Normal,” José says again. It’s astonishing, almost fascinating, how much disdain he can pack into a single word, but it’s all so very much part of this game he’s laid out that Jürgen can’t take offense. He shakes his head but stands his ground, even when Jürgen comes another few steps closer and he has to raise his chin a tiny fraction, then another and another, to keep eye contact. “No, I wouldn’t call you _normal._ ”

“No?” From this much closer -- nearly close enough to touch -- he can see the tiredness, the tension, the tight-wired worry under the skin, at the corners of his eyes, in the line of his jaw, all so very familiar; and José doesn’t have six years of goodwill built up to hold him through a lean season, has never precisely traded on goodwill anywhere he’s been. “Rather me than you, I think. You do have the cups to prove it.”

Only the briefest flicker of José’s eyes lets on that he hadn’t been expecting that, one that might be as easily explained as the way he has to look up now, all that distance stripped away. “Tonight’s result was not so shit for you.”

“You remember a lot of what I have to say.” He doesn’t particularly like remembering that night at Wembley, or that loss, but it’s almost affectionate, he thinks, in a venomous kind of way, to use his own words to poke and prod at him with instead of coming up with others -- and to expect anything but venom from José in a temper is beyond ridiculous, no matter the company or the situation.

José reaches across the gap between them to poke him in the chest, deliberately leaving his finger there, resting light enough that he could get away with it under a referee’s eyes. Practiced. “It’s because you talk too much. Like your _heavy metal_ lyrics. So much noise for nothing.”

“Normal people do that,” Jürgen allows. To anyone else he’d admit that that had been an awfully cheesy line, but -- well, everyone’s allowed some interesting metaphors in their idiot youth, surely. Right now, though, he doesn’t need to show José another red flag to chase after. Instead he pokes José back, a similar light tap. It feels silly to leave his hand there, though, so he slides it to his shoulder instead. The broadcloth of José’s blazer is only slightly wrinkled under his hand, the texture different than he remembers.

And the distance between them suddenly seems smaller, even though objectively he knows it isn’t, even though it’s still been the same long three years since they stood in a hotel room not entirely unlike this one, a few countries and clubs away. Jürgen takes a breath to say something else -- something _normal_ , maybe, like José’s name -- but the finger on his chest stabs in deeper, José’s eyes narrow a little, and he says, “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He raises an eyebrow.

“For once, don’t open your big mouth.”

This is blatantly unfair, and they’re both equally blatantly aware of it, but the challenge in his stare is more intriguing than it has any right to be, so Jürgen just smiles, brow still cocked, and opens his free hand in silence: it’s closed, and so?

José scowls at him, the stabbing finger growing actually uncomfortable for a moment before Jürgen finally leans down across the last of the distance to kiss him; it flattens against his chest, then fists into his shirt, holding him still. “You’re insufferable,” José says into his mouth without moving back a centimeter, their teeth clashing uncomfortably.

“I try,” Jürgen says on a brief breath, but José is already reaching for his trousers, opening them one-handed as easily as if he’d only had to pull down trackies. He’s got Jürgen’s half-hard cock in his hand in the next second, his grip barely on the right side of uncomfortably tight, the pad of his thumb rough and perfect under the head. “God, shit--”

“Then _try_ to keep up,” José says, yanking him down by the shirt into a biting kiss with enough force that Jürgen has to tighten his hand on José’s shoulder to steady himself, leaning on him with enough of his weight that he feels the hitch in José’s breath against his lips as he squares his shoulders to support them both. That gets to him almost as much as the kiss and the hand on his cock; he thrusts forward hard into José’s grip, hard enough that José bites at him in revenge, and undoes his trousers: not quite so deftly, but quick enough that he gets no complaints, just the soft growl of a repressed moan when he fishes him out of his pants and wraps his fist around him.

It’s always a competition with him, always a match of points scored for and against; Jürgen can almost hear the score counter ticking away in his head, cataloguing each noise, every sound and shift; can feel the smugness in the vicious smile under his lips and the way José pauses in his quick strokes to drag his fingers slowly across the head, shockingly gentle, smearing the pre-come back down over the ridge. It drags a moan from him that he doesn’t bother to suppress, because cliche as it is, the only way to win is not to play at all -- or to change the rules midstream.

He pushes José back against the wall, using his weight, the angle, the leverage that José had been keeping _him_ off-balance with, and shifts his mouth from José’s lips to his jaw, scraping his teeth along the clean shaven line of it, forcing his head up and back. It’s still not the easiest; he can feel his back complaining already, but he can’t bring himself to care, not with José’s angry pulse under his tongue, his hand working fast and slick, still trying for control. He laughs, knowing it’ll annoy him, knowing the press of his grin against José’s throat will be even worse, despite the marks it won’t leave. “It will be a little obvious if I lend you clothes, don’t you think?” he says, pushing harder into his hand anyway. He’d be lying if he said the thought wasn’t as attractive as it was amusing: José drowning in his clothes, José with his neat navy suit already rumpled, then stained so unmistakably.

“Fuck you,” José says. It isn’t so high on the list of nastiest things he’s ever said, but it does add some more fascinating thoughts to a different list, one Jürgen doesn’t have much time to think about before José flattens his hand against his chest again, shoving him away hard enough to get a bit of space between them. He looks furious, and irresistible, and so damn _close_ \-- 

Impulsively, Jürgen lets go of his cock long enough to spit in his hand, wrapping it back around him and watching his face twist as he fights it hard. He looks good like that, too, really fucking good. Instead of wasting his breath saying so, he steps forward to re-close the distance, pressing them together and knocking José’s briefly-loosened hand away from his own cock, taking them both in hand to stroke them together, sloppy-wet and sliding against each other sweet and hot. 

“ _Caralho_ ,” José spits back at him, and something else he doesn’t catch but imagines is along the same lines, and comes, snarling, thick spurts up Jürgen’s wrist and over his sleeve that spill back down into his fist, slicking his tight grip even more. It’s the hard throb of José’s cock pressed so close and the stutter of his hips breaking up the rhythm that pushes Jürgen over the edge to join him, though, sending him slumping forward half against him, half against the wall.

He stays like that, pleasantly exhausted, until José shoves at him again with an irritated mutter -- and then, as he steps back, has to laugh again: somehow, impossibly, José has managed to avoid getting a single spot on shirt or trousers.


End file.
